Lasting Impressions
by lovelylatte
Summary: Ivan had longed for happiness, for bright laughter and warm eyes to chase away the loneliness; but it didn't happen like this, and there are no if's in history. Russia, Lithuania, Poland


_Writen for the Eastern Euro Funk Fest at Livejournal. My prompt was Russia - Lasting Impression - 1500's/1700's/1900's. Somewhat vague and not really what I had planned; also pretty angsty, I guess? Oh, and I'm sorry for the violet-tinted sentences, if ya know what I mean..._

* * *

**Lasting Impressions**

* * *

It was spring, that he would remember (much, much) later. Not quite the time of the day (the year even less, if he had learned to count so far yet or had had any reference at all, which was not the case); only that empty clouds had begun to clear from the sky, showing a pale sun too weak to warm and too shy to dry the wide fields. Cool blades of grass tickled Ivan's toes, drops left from the morning's rain glistering on his feet.

Until that day, he had walked across his lands for hours, barefooted, mindless of where he was going and where he came from, eyes up in a sky he didn't know yet wasn't only his.

On this cool spring day, Ivan came across a woman; tall and fair skinned, her lean figure wrapped in loose robes, floating with every blow of the wind. Her dark hair was covered with a veil and tied behind her head in a long braid. While her presence was important, or seemed to be, from the shivers that coursed through Ivan's consciousness when he saw her, her features made no lasting impression.

Ivan would also remember there was a child with the tall woman, and that he couldn't tell whether it was a boy or a girl at first. The tiny body - probably younger than Ivan's, and smaller too - was dressed in the same fashion as the woman's, and the blond head was adorned by a bright ribbon and a white flower. From across the field, Ivan couldn't see the child's face. The laughter, however, as the woman's lips moved and curled into a smile and she crouched down to ruffle the child's hair - the clear, light, innocent sound would stay with him for a long, long time.

Perhaps things would have been different, had Ivan crawled through the tall grass and reached out to the woman and child.

He could have been their friend, perhaps. Even family.

They could have saved him, couldn't they? He would have protected them.

But he didn't, and Ivan never saw (or thought of) the woman again.

* * *

Ivan liked the woods. More so than the wide fields, the forests of his land had always felt warm, like home.

Even when all Ivan could see for miles was white sparkling snow and dark branches; when all he could feel was the embrace of Winter through his thin clothes - what was left of last fall's efforts, tattered and torn and barely warm enough to keep his fingertips from turning blue, numbing the bruises and scrapes that painted his body.

Ivan just closed his eyes and he could smell the flowers and the grass, the sun-warmed leaves and the dirt of the ground after the rain; the scent of firewood burning, of meat cooking, of someone else's body close to his. The sound of laughter, of love.

These woods, he knew, connected him with others; children and adults, beings like him that smiled and laughed and cried like he did. If he wandered west, or north, he knew he would find another boy, with dark hair and kind, soft words. Ivan had seen the boy's people, the boy's castle. Perhaps, one day, Ivan would be strong enough to talk to him and grasp an outstretched, friendly hand.

Then, they would be friends, Ivan thought to himself over and over again when he was left bleeding and cold and alone on the forest's snow-covered ground. And he would build a castle, so large they would all be together and within its thick walls, Ivan would keep all the kind words and bright laughter and never be lonely.

When Ivan would be strong enough. (And he would be, someday.)

* * *

If only Ivan had spoken to the woman and the blond child; if only he hadn't run as the boy in the forest reached out to him -

But there are no "if"'s in history; it simply didn't happen this way.

Ivan saw them both again, but by the time he learned their names - from his sisters, from his people, whispered in his cities - it was already too late, although Ivan didn't know it yet.

The brown haired boy, taller and stronger than that first time, his eyes bright and his mouth set in a thin line; every time Ivan saw him, a part of him stayed behind, wounded and captured.

The little blond, further back, watching, not laughing and not talking. He wore a small chain and a cross around his neck, and his faith was foreign and different and powerful.

They were holding hands, Ivan saw - while he still felt the cool air flow between his own fingers.

_Why?_ Ivan wondered. They were made of dust and snow, forests and sand, just like he was - why couldn't they see? Why wouldn't they be with him?

Ivan wasn't strong enough, not yet. He would be, someday, and then -

* * *

- then, they were gone.

Or at least Poland was, Russia had made sure of it when he could not convince the others he could take care of him. So Russia had left him there, alone, like he himself had been all these years ago, and Russia hated Poland even more for forcing him to remember.

Lithuania was with him, though far from the bright-eyed youth of Ivan's first impression. Distant and sad and grey, he dusted and cleaned the house Russia's people had built for him - for them, and if things sometimes disappeared from the pantry, if dust was only swept under the rug, well, Russia could still only smile at him and kiss his forehead.

They were together, weren't they? Even if Poland wasn't, even if his sister was not talking much anymore, even if Lithuania's hands were colder than Russia has always thought they would be as they brushed against his.

Sometimes Lithuania disappeared from the house. His brothers, frail and shaking, could say nothing of his whereabouts, and he was always back a few hours later, but Russia could not pretend he didn't notice the traces of ink on his fingers, the distantly familiar chain and cross tied around his wrist, or the way Lithuania would never look him in the eyes.

Russia's heart ached. Sadness crept up to his bones, ran along his veins and filled his eyes, its slow, languid progression pathetic and painstaking; and when the chill came over and wrapped itself around it, as if to shield or numb it from harm, then, Russia laughed.

It wasn't lonely, he thought.

(Or perhaps he was only getting used to it, the wind whispered in his ear.)

* * *

"Did it have to happen like this?" Russia whispered to no one, the rifle slipping from his fingers and falling to the ground with a metallic scream. "Could I have done something?"

If even weapons were leaving him now, what could he do? It was too late, too late, there was nothing he could have done -

was there?

He couldn't remember.

* * *

After so long, they came back.

The first impressions, the bubbly feelings he had come to known and call happiness. The memories.

It took centuries - wars, civil wars, world wars and cold wars. (More pain and loss, always more, but the more there was, the less lonely the pain was, and so Russia kept laughing laughing laughing until he couldn't hear it anymore.)

Now, after everything, Russia was alone again, but the swords and the rifles were gone and the wind had finally fallen quiet. Lithuania's eyes were green once more, lovely and bright, warm, just like the forest Russia had first seen him in.

Russia had missed the forest, and when he told him, Lithuania just looked adorable and puzzled, his brow creased, as Russia kissed his nose.

Lithuania shook his head and grinned - despite himself, Russia was certain, proud of this victory.

"Hey, you better leave me some place, you two!"

Russia's smile, already bright, widened at Poland's clear, teasing voice.

"There is always place for you," he replied, honesty in every word, as Poland laughed loudly, the sound Russia had at once both loved and hated echoing in the room.

(This time it was the hate he had left behind, and this laugh reminded Russia of bright days in a field - although he didn't dare yet tell Poland that.)

"If you, like, move your butt, yeah!"

This time, Lithuania laughed too. He moved down from Russia's lap and Poland sprawled on them both with a contented sigh. Russia put a hand to his leg, and Lithuania ran his fingers through his hair.

"So, sleepover?"

Poland's body was warm, and Lithuania's skin was soft. It wasn't at all like what Russia had imagined, the memories of these first impressions and the dreams that came with them, dreams of a castle and a field, maybe, warm and full and strong, but it was good.

His house was smaller - he wasn't the strongest, not anymore. He was alone, his bed big and old, his kitchen not always as full as it had once been, but somehow it was good. Somehow, Russia thought he was happy, maybe.

And when they kissed, it wasn't cold.


End file.
